Twentieth Century Towers
by Nightfall Daybreak
Summary: Sequel to "Charming Man." Alfred, now attending university alongside Arthur, is finally pursuing his long-held dreams of becoming a scientist - but the answers that he sees are not always evident to others, and societal gaps are difficult to cross. UK/US.
1. i: twentieth century towers

**Hello, everyone! It's Nightfall again. **

**Thank you so much to everyone who read and reviewed "This Charming Man," and since many of you asked to know what happened after the events of that story, I decided to go ahead and try my hand at writing a multi-chapter sequel to it.**

**For those of you who haven't read "This Charming Man," you should probably read it first in order to understand what's going on . . . and I would very much appreciate it if you reviewed. :)**

**First of all - let me say that it took me _forever _to write this first chapter. I started writing the beginning immediately after I published the oneshot, and from there it took well over two months, teasing this chapter out sentence by sentence. I do hope you'll like it, though!**

****I've decided to write the sequel in the same vein as the oneshot: each chapter will be titled with a song (probably all by Death Cab for Cutie, because I love them) and I will probably intersperse lyric phrases with my own writing. It's easier for me this way, because at this point, listening to the music on repeat is what motivates me. The title of this story (and this chapter) comes from the Death Cab song "20th-Century Towers"; go and give it a listen, if you like. It's lovely. ****

**This first chapter takes place several months after the events of "This Charming Man." Alfred is in university now, studying alongside Arthur, and they do have an established relationship, although with Arthur being such a gentleman and Alfred being so uncertain, both of them are ridiculously timid about the whole affair. XD Alfred's regained quite a bit of his cocky personality here, but we will see many glimmers of the hesitancy he showed in the oneshot - and you can probably guess at the main source of the tension in future chapters.**

**Hope you enjoy! **

* * *

><p>They cut quite a striking couple, the pair of them, as they wandered leisurely down the pavement. Passersby to their right and left turned to throw them glances that were equal parts admiration and envy, but these objects of the public eye were oblivious to it all, immersed only in the mutual affection they had for each other.<p>

The young man on the right was the taller of the two. He was modestly dressed, his lean figure clothed in a simple pale-gray shirt and painstakingly patched trousers that were slightly too short for his long legs. His broad shoulders were covered with a weather-beaten leather jacket, and the shoes on his feet were scuffed with wear.

In spite of his shabby appearance, Alfred Jones was a singularly handsome man, with dark gold hair and blue eyes that were vivid with enthusiasm behind his glasses. From the cheerful smile that wreathed his face, none of the passersby could guess that such delight had made itself evident only a few months ago, for the first time in a long while.

Some, however, could perhaps guess at the cause of his delight: the elegant young man who walked on his left. Arthur Kirkland was smaller than his companion, with a slight frame clad in a dark blue double-breasted suit and tie. His charming face was framed by a wealth of bright blond hair; his intense green eyes, set upon by truly massive eyebrows, rested on his partner's face as the two young men conversed. His very posture, if not his appearance, seemed suggestive of high breeding and refinement, and his words to Alfred were spoken in a tone of courtly geniality.

Some may have wondered why such a gentleman could be found in the company of an obviously lower-class, less educated individual. However, the few who questioned this were evidently not very perceptive, as one only had to look at the gentle affection on Arthur's face to understand everything.

". . . would you mind explaining that to me all over again, Alfred?" Arthur was saying as the two of them stood on a curb, watching the surging traffic and waiting for their turn to cross. "And please omit the mathematics this time, love. You know I don't understand them."

Alfred laughed; a bright, hearty sound that seemed to fill the air with sunlight.

"Very well," he said, smiling. "Essentially, the uncertainty principle of Werner Heisenberg—he's a German theoretical physicist, Ludwig quite admires him—states that the speed and location of a quantum particle cannot be calculated at the same time." Arthur nodded and gave a "_hmm_"of contemplation as they crossed the street. "If we find the value of one, we cannot find the other. It's impossible."

"Why is that?" Arthur inquired. "Do we simply not have the technology at the moment?"

Alfred shook his head. "Like I said, it is completely impossible. A quantum particle is a unit of possibilities. We cannot calculate its exact movement—just a general area of all possible trajectories, and that is called quantum foam. Ludwig and I are investigating it right now with several other students in the physics class."

"I see."

It was clear that Arthur understood very little of the realm of quantum physics, but there was an unmistakable note of pride in his voice. As he glanced sideways at his companion, his green eyes were soft.

"It is good to see you so enthusiastic about your studies, Alfred," Arthur murmured as they strode down the sidewalk. "It . . . gladdens me to see you so happy. I hope the university offers you everything you could wish for."

Alfred stopped walking, forcing Arthur to halt as well and turn to face him.

"Arthur, do you tease me?" Alfred protested, spreading his arms. "The university offers me _everything _that I could ever hope for and more. I'm learning such a lot now; I am finally pursuing my dreams. For someone of my background, Arthur—it is incredible. I . . . I couldn't begin to describe to you how happy I am."

Arthur's lips curved into a gentle smile.

"Then there is nothing that makes me happier."

"I haven't forgotten to whom I truly owe all of this, though," Alfred continued. His voice softened as he gazed at the other man. "I could never have gotten here without you, Arthur. You . . . you made my life so much better, you reminded me who I am. You've given me everything I've ever wanted."

Arthur's lips parted; he seemed slightly taken aback by Alfred's heartfelt words.

"Anyone would have helped you, Alfred," he said softly. They were standing on a stretch of pavement winding alongside a small, quiet side street now. Further down in the shade, the pastel awning of the storefront of one of Alfred's favorite pastry shops beckoned. Apart from the occasional person hurrying past down the opposite sidewalk, they were completely alone. "You have so much potential. Anyone, given the chance to discover your talent, would have gladly helped you to realize its fullness."

Alfred shook his head, although he could not completely ignore the steady thudding beneath his ribs.

"You know just as well as I do that that would have been impossible for someone like me." He drew a breath. "You are the only person who has ever truly believed in me . . . willing to do so much for a man you merely plucked from the side of the road." He hesitated. "And . . . and when I said that you'd given me everything I've ever wanted, I wasn't just referring to the university classes, Arthur. . . ."

At these words, a heavy blush stole over the other man's face. As much as Alfred wanted to smile at the endearing sight, he struggled with every last ounce of his self-discipline to maintain a serious expression. He needed Arthur to be certain of his sincerity.

"Alfred," Arthur breathed at last, his cheeks still heatedly aflame, "I believe anyone would have given that to you, as well."

"Compared to you? Not a chance." Alfred grinned. "I believe I will never quite understand what it is that draws you to me."

"To the contrary, my dear Alfred," the other man sighed. "I find you absolutely enthralling. And make no mistake when I tell you as such."

Alfred felt a searing heat flare across his face, and could only beam wordlessly at Arthur, rendered utterly incoherent. After a quick glance around him to confirm that the premises were otherwise deserted, he extended his hand to his companion.

Arthur took it, wrapping his slim fingers around Alfred's. In the gentle pressure of his touch Alfred felt all the words that he wanted to say, and he tightened his hold in response.

For one moment, they stood, fingers entwined, and then they let go.

"Well," Arthur said softly, straightening his collar. He nodded ahead of them. "Shall we go on, then?"

". . . ah, of course." Alfred shook his head briskly and fervently willed speech to return to his tongue.

He supposed he should be grateful that he only spent a fraction of his day with Arthur. Otherwise he would most likely be left perpetually hovering about the man in mute admiration like a fool.

_Then again, that is what we all are in love_.

"How are your own studies faring?" Alfred inquired as the two of them crossed a street at a busy intersection at a lull in the traffic.

"Very well, thank you." Arthur permitted Alfred to hold his elbow briefly as he guided the smaller man over an uneven section of pavement. "The classic literature class has been somewhat slow of progress these past few days, but it is fine. The work that we're currently reading is quite gripping—the play _Antigone, _by the ancient Greek tragic writer, Sophocles. Have you ever heard of it?"

Alfred shook his head. "Tell me about it."

Arthur gladly continued, eager to discuss the subject that he loved best in the world. "Well, it is a bit of a sequel to the play _Seven Against Thebes _by Aeschylus—he's another Greek tragic writer—and it is rather a complicated story, but let me see if I can sum it up . . ."

Alfred waited patiently for Arthur to organize his thoughts as they strolled. He had recognized the keen gleam in his companion's eyes and understood that he wanted to share his passion for literature as much as Alfred had his enthusiasm for science.

"All right," Arthur said finally. "So, essentially, there were two brothers who were fighting for control of a city. A massive civil war ensued, and they both died battling each other. Their uncle, who ascended the throne next, decreed that only one of the brothers would be given an honorable burial. The other one he left on the battlefield, unburied, at the mercy of the carrion animals. At the time, this was the height of blasphemy, the harshest punishment one could possibly deliver. As long as his body remained unburied, his spirit would never find peace.

"Furthermore, the king decreed that anyone who dared to bury his body would be subject to the death penalty. The two brothers had two sisters, though, and one of them, Antigone, was determined to give her brother an honorable burial, in defiance of her uncle's cruelty. . . ."

Arthur was a gifted storyteller. Whenever he began to relate the tale of some long-ago happening or of a figment of someone's imagination, his rich voice took on a sonorous tone, relishing the elegant words that flowed from his tongue. He wielded language as easily and beautifully as a skilled potter might manipulate the smooth clay of his craft.

Alfred loved it when Arthur began to tell stories and his voice slipped into that quiet faraway tone, painting the air with the soft colors and vibrant hues of his imagination. Alfred himself harbored only a mild interest in literature. However, he felt that he could fully appreciate writing when he heard the words spoken from Arthur's lips. Somehow, Arthur's voice had the ability to summon to brilliant, intelligent life the texts of ancient past, to cause one to lose oneself in spellbound fascination with olden writing.

Such was his skill. Or perhaps it was merely the fact that Alfred (_shamelessly_) adored Arthur and anything he had to say.

". . . and the king, enraged, sentenced her to be buried alive for her crime. The entire city mourned for the girl behind closed doors; they secretly agreed with her decision, but were too afraid to voice this to the king, and finally, she killed herself before she could be buried alive. The king's son, who loved her, killed himself, as did the queen." Arthur glanced sideways at his companion. "In the end, the king's own arrogance and short-sightedness brought about this tragedy."

"That sounds so sad," Alfred murmured, thoughtful, musing. "And somewhat familiar. . . ."

"It is a common literary theme," Arthur agreed. "Human flaws being at the root of all sorrow. Somewhat depressing, but accurate."

Alfred nodded, still reflecting on the story (_what a tragic way to see one's final days_).

"I suppose you would like to write something like that," he said, smiling. "What with your great understanding of literature."

The other man cleared his throat, slightly embarrassed.

"You are too kind, Alfred. However, I am not . . . I mean, it would be very difficult to write a piece so moving, so dramatic, as I often envision . . . but I do wish, of course, to write a novel. A fairly decent novel, hopefully, that people will find pleasure in reading."

"Of course they would enjoy reading something you'd written, Arthur."

The two men turned a corner and continued sauntering down the sidewalk that led into the more downtown area of the city. Here, the crowds thickened, swarming into the movie theatres, coffee shops, restaurants, outfitters, and countless other stores that lined the streets.

"After all, you're brilliant at literature and history," Alfred went on, "and you'll soon have a lot of time to focus on writing a novel. You're nearly finished with university, and—how long is it until the term ends?"

"About four months." Arthur sighed. "I would not rather think about it. I have a ridiculously lengthy dissertation to complete before then, in addition to my other assignments _and _the examinations. Even after I finish university, I'll be hard pressed for time, working as a teaching assistant and in the archival center. There will be little time to work on my writing. . . ."

"Don't give up on it, though." Alfred grinned. "I am still waiting for the day when I walk into a bookshop, and I see an entire shelf of best-selling novels, all with '_Arthur Kirkland_' written on the covers—"

"And I am waiting for the day when I see the name '_Alfred Jones_' scrawled all over the papers, because you've become famous for inventing half a million newfangled devices and making astounding scientific discoveries," Arthur countered, a hint of gentle banter in his voice.

"Is that it, then? You as the famed author, me the mediocre scientist?" Alfred teased, although indeed, the vision that Arthur had painted was a wish very dear to his heart.

"Of course not. I hear tell that you are making excellent progress in your studies. I met Ludwig the other day by chance. He was full of enthusiasm about you, raving about how inventive and ingenious your ideas were. The professors had nothing but praise for you, as well."

Alfred raised an eyebrow as he absorbed this information. "Ludwig was _raving_ about my ideas?"

"Well, perhaps not," Arthur admitted. "But you do know how he is when he's enthusiastic about something."

Alfred laughed as they drew to a halt on the pavement. They were standing in front of a rather dilapidated wood-and-brick building, slightly smaller and narrower than all of the others in its row. Several shingles were missing from the roof, and the cracks in the window were badly in need of repair. Above the peeling rust-red paint of the door, a faded hand-lettered sign proclaimed the curious title of the establishment: _The Tang and Barrel._

When Arthur had first expressed an interest in visiting the pub where he had been employed for most of his life, Alfred had initially been wary of introducing such a coarse, unrefined place to his sophisticated partner. Arthur, though intelligent and cultured as he was, did not fully understand the harshness of the city's darker divisions—he had not grown up in a cruel world of alleys and asphalt, fending for himself (_often with violence_). He did not know the nature of the streets as Alfred did.

Yet, he was not afraid.

"It will not repulse me, Alfred," he had said softly, when Alfred had conveyed his anxiety. "Unless you are mistreated there, I do not believe that I could find something that would disgust me."

And it was then that Alfred had thought, not for the first time, how completely unlike the typical upper-class citizen Arthur Kirkland was. His willing acceptance, his humble compassion—they set him apart from the educated, privileged men of high society who would otherwise be identical.

Alfred smiled at him now, silently grateful that he had insisted that the difference in their backgrounds not be a barrier in their companionship.

"Well, here we are." He pulled the door aside for him, listening to the empty tinkle of the tarnished bell, and waited for Arthur to enter the pub before doing so himself.

The Tang and Barrel was a small tavern, the limits of its interior further emphasized by its encroaching darkness. The pub owner was evermore complaining about the gloom, and swore frequently that he would have more lights installed, but of course he had done no such thing. For now, the patrons would be forced to drink their cheap beer in the dim half-light.

There were a few clients in the pub today, sitting at several of the tables scattered haphazardly across the poorly swept floor. They were laughing raucously, their uproar accompanied by the sounds of their bottles and glasses clinking together as they drunkenly toasted each other.

There always seemed to be a certain number of customers present, Alfred noticed suddenly. He had never given it much thought before, but when he applied his attention—he was certain that the fellow in the corner, the one with the tattered newsboy-style cap . . . yes, he seemed to be a regular. Alfred had seen him lurking around quite a few times; every other day, actually, like clockwork, always ordering a few shots of something rather strong and then lapsing quickly into rambling inebriation.

It was an interesting way to view it. Before now, these men had always been part of the pub's collective atmosphere, part of the décor, almost; nothing more than faceless drunkards without names or stories.

Behind the bar, the pub owner stood in his customary grimy apron, filling shot glasses with bourbon whiskey. He was a heavyset, balding man with a great protruding curve of a belly stretching the stitches of his clothing. He seemed to be performing his task with little enthusiasm, and as Alfred approached the bar, he did not so much as register his arrival with a flicker of his eyes.

"Uhmm," the pub owner grunted around a thick cigar clamped between his teeth, which was his way of greeting. "Finally here."

"I am not late," Alfred pointed out. "I did tell you beforehand what hours I'd be working tonight. I'm sure you remember."

"Of course I do!" snapped the pub owner, pounding his fist down on the bar in indignation and making the little glasses rattle. "Fixing your own hours to make it work with your time at that confounded university. Be grateful that I didn't kick you out on your backside. Now get over here, boy. There are glasses waiting to be polished and floors to be swept."

At his side, Alfred felt Arthur stiffen and quickly guessed the cause of his unspoken anger: the pub owner's dismissive, insulting treatment of him.

He gave Arthur a reassuring grin (_do not worry, this happens all the time, it's all right_), then turned his smile on his employer.

"I'll be right there!" he said brightly.

As he set to work, Arthur lowered himself into a seat at the bar, never taking his eyes off him. With his fine clothes and air of unmistakable breeding, he stood out in the coarse pub setting like a diamond amidst coals.

_Which he certainly was_, Alfred thought to himself, wiping one of the shot glasses with a rag.

They remained like that in silence until one of the clients staggered up from his chair, obviously having had a little too much to drink, pounded his fist on the bar, and loudly demanded another round of drinks. While the pub owner's attention was distracted, Alfred seized the opportunity to move towards Arthur and whisper: "Don't look like that. I am usually treated this way; it is nothing new. Remember, I am only the pantry boy, after all."

"I am aware of your station here, Alfred, but . . ."

Arthur hesitated, clearly unwilling to see his companion treated in such a manner. Alfred was suddenly reminded that, for all his courtly behavior, Arthur had a rather fierce defensive side.

"It is fine," Alfred insisted softly, hoping that he sounded convincing. "I am getting paid here, anyway. You know that it is the only way I can make any—"

He broke off as the bell above the door jangled, and a pretty young woman pushed her way into the bar. She had an extremely harried expression on her lovely face, and she slammed the door with a loud, forceful crash as she entered.

"Hey!" roared the pub owner, in an eruption of fury and cigar smoke. "Watch that door, woman!"

She only tossed her head, sending masses of curling dark brown hair rippling over her shoulders, and strode past the tables into the working area behind the bar.

Alfred grinned as she joined him and began to load shot glasses onto a tray. "Hello, Elizabeta."

"Alfred," she responded, expertly giving him a playful whack upside the head as she passed into the main pub area again, causing him to burst into laughter.

The pub owner let out an ill-tempered growl as he slammed a new bottle of brandy onto the bar. "Damn it, there is not a single day you are here on time, woman. One of these days, I might make good on my threats and give you the sack!"

"You would not," Elizabeta retorted. Her eyes, the green of fresh apples, were defiant. "And you know why."

Alfred lowered his head, but he was smirking. He knew perfectly well, just as well as did the pub owner, why Elizabeta could not be dismissed. For all her temper and lack of punctuality, she was a diligent and efficient member of the staff. When the drunks and the riffraff in the pub began to get a little too wild—or worse, initiate riotous bar fights—she was, for some inexplicable reason, the only one who could bring the situation under control and restore order.

The most significant reason, however, was one that Alfred knew the pub owner would never admit: Elizabeta's appearance. She was, without a doubt, a fetching young woman, and her attractive form had lured many a passerby into the otherwise unremarkable pub—and maintained a steady stream of customers. Indeed, even now, as she moved amongst the tables with her tray of glasses, many of the drunkards raised their unpleasant faces to stare openly at her. She was wearing only a plain white shirtwaist and drab gray skirt, but her graceful figure was still evident; and her skin was smooth and flushed with color. Only her hands were work-roughened, hardened by years of desperate labor.

The pub owner uttered a growl of impotent frustration, clearly unable to refute Elizabeta, and banged another bottle of brandy onto the bar, more forcibly than was strictly necessary.

Elizabeta smirked, satisfied with the knowledge of her victory, and returned to where Alfred and Arthur were situated. She leaned down beside them, draping her arms over the bar and resting her elbows on the counter.

"I recall having met you before," she said to Arthur, directing a searching glance at him. One of her brows furrowed. "A good friend of Alfred, are you not? Ah . . . I remember your name now. Mr. Kirkland?"

"Yes," Arthur said, extending his hand; she shook it firmly. "Please, call me Arthur. And you are Miss Héderváry?"

"Elizabeta," she replied, with a slight pucker about her lips that suggested that she did not particularly like the formality.

"Yes, of course. Forgive me. It is good to see you again."

"And you," Elizabeta responded, with a sideways glance at Alfred that revealed her surprise at the man's politeness.

Alfred merely smirked in reply and reached for the next glass to clean. It was amusing, the wondering incredulous manner with which the pub staff viewed Arthur Kirkland; among them he was utterly incongruous, and his respectful civility only made him all the more incredible to those who had expected nothing but scornful contempt from him.

Moreover, they had been unable to fathom why their lowly pantry boy had suddenly begun appearing for work with an elegant young gentleman by his side every afternoon. It had created, indeed, a most awkward situation. Alfred had been well aware of their burning curiosity, the whispers that rolled to and fro behind the bar whenever his back was turned; hence he had not been surprised when the pub owner abruptly ordered him downstairs to the cellar on one occasion to retrieve a fresh bottle of brandy, forcing him to leave Arthur alone at the bar. Alfred had complied swiftly, but waited against the darkened stairwell, hidden from view and listening intently.

Unsurprisingly, the pub owner had seized upon Alfred's absence in order to question his extraordinary companion. Upon being directly addressed by the other man, Arthur's face bore an expression of fleeting alarm; clearly he had not expected to be spoken to, situated as he was in his solitary corner.

"You." The pub owner grunted, exhaling a bitter cloud of cigar smoke. "You're an . . . acquaintance of Alfred's?"

"Yes, sir." Arthur gave a small, taciturn nod. "A friend of his, actually."

"Huh."

Another exhalation of smoke, this time accompanied by a piercing stare as he leaned forward, fixing Arthur with his beady eyes.

"What I'd like to know," he said bluntly, "is why a gentleman like yourself would be ambling about with the likes of him."

Arthur had colored slightly under the inquisition, but his voice was cool and firm when he answered:

"Alfred is a very talented man. I am fortunate to have had the pleasure of getting to know him—we are, after all, currently completing our studies at the same university, and I can quite honestly say that I consider him to be one of my closest friends. I see no reason why it is so unusual that we spend time with each other."

A long, pregnant pause trailed past. Alfred, safely concealed beneath the landing, could not help but feel a deep flush of delighted pride at hearing Arthur speak of him with such praise.

Finally, the pub owner expelled a heavy sigh and lifted himself from the counter.

"Very well, then," he grunted, wedging his malodorous cigar more firmly into his mouth. "As long as you know what you're doing." He made as if to return to his work, but apparently reconsidered it and turned back to Arthur. "Let me say this, though: the two of you must be the most oddly matched pair that I have ever seen. But the boy looks happier than he has in months, so you must be doing some good, eh?"

He let out a wheezing chuckle, and Alfred saw some of the tension in Arthur's face ease.

"Yes, sir," he said, and that was enough.

That conversation had evidently ended all debate concerning Alfred's companion, because from that point on, the two of them were no longer on the receiving end of openly gawking stares from the staff whenever they entered the tavern. The pub owner more or less paid no heed to Arthur, preferring instead to bellow at Alfred in the fashion that he had always done. However, he had made a conspicuous point of assigning Alfred less menial labor whenever Arthur was present. Clearly, he did not wish to incur the Briton's wrath by humiliating Alfred in front of him. The work would of course be later completed, but Alfred was still deeply grateful that Arthur did not have to bear witness to his drudgery.

During the brief hours that Arthur had spent at the pub over the past few months, he had grown somewhat acquainted with the staff, who were gradually adjusting to the notion of their pantry boy associating with him. Often, no more than nods of greeting were passed between the two parties, though he'd exchanged more amiable pleasantries with the other bar girl, Emma Debroux, who worked long shifts and was frequently there. Elizabeta, who arranged her own hours as she saw fit, often arrived after Arthur had left, but they had spoken once or twice before.

Now, however, as she took up the tray of glasses again, she shot Alfred a keen glance, one that held the promise of later conversation. He gave her a nod in reply, but couldn't contain the amusement that curved his lips into a smile. Between him and Elizabeta, there were no secrets—she needn't have worried. However, judging from the intent gleam in her eyes and the way her gaze flickered between him and Arthur, he would not have been surprised if she had guessed that he was being courted by the English gentleman.

Elizabeta Héderváry had been, from childhood, Alfred's dearest friend, confidante, and playmate, and still was. She had grown up in the same cluster of tenement houses that he had, directly across the street from him; and together they had whiled away the years of their early age, when she had been a rambunctious, hot-tempered little girl with roughly cut hair, and he a cheerful young rascal with perpetually grimy hands and a gap-toothed, infectious smile. Her parents had been Hungarian immigrants who exhausted themselves from dawn to dusk, toiling to earn what little keep they could and often too weary to devote much time to their young daughter. As a result, Elizabeta had had to learn how to fend for herself out on the streets—something that she did fearsomely well. The first time that Alfred encountered her, she was roughing up several boys who had made the dire mistake of teasing her.

The Hungarian girl had initially been distrustful of him, demanding if he'd come to taunt her as well and warning him that she could defeat him as easily as she had the other youths. However, the seven-year-old Alfred had denied it cheerfully, and invited her to come and play with him, dissolving her fears in his innocent smile and soothing her bristling attitude.

Thus the two of them had struck up a quick friendship, and with their alliance firmly in place, they launched a massive war against the rest of the neighboring ruffians and urchins—from which they emerged, undoubtedly, triumphant. Alfred would forever after recall the memory of their first victory with a certain amount of fondness: the two of them, crouching together on one of the lower rooftops, their hands and faces streaked with dirt, laughing as they pelted their enemies with clods of rubbish.

From that moment on, Elizabeta had taken Alfred under her wing, caring for him with just as much as affection as if she were his older sister. They'd played, roughhousing and tussling in the avenue where they'd been raised; braved the early-morning traffic as they walked together to the dingy, ramshackle building of a schoolhouse where they learned their lessons, with its faded brick and time-worn veneer. Often Elizabeta, knowing that Alfred would not be fed at home, would cook supper for him—a gesture of utmost warmth, considering that her family struggled to feed and support even themselves. They would sit in her kitchen on evenings that her parents were working late hours, eating a thick vegetable stew that Elizabeta called _főzelék_, as she attempted unsuccessfully to teach him fragments of her native language.

In many ways, she had been a mother figure throughout his life, the font of all the tenderness and affection in his childhood that he had never received from his own parents. Even now, at the ages of nineteen and twenty-one, respectively, and with both of them heavily anxious about and occupied with their own lives, they remained close and continued to care for each other. Often Alfred would marvel, watching the lovely young woman that she had become and remembering the obstinate, unruly little girl she had once been. He could only assume that he had changed as much.

He certainly _felt _different, within the adult body that he seemed to have acquired not-so-very-long-ago, while his childhood felt several lifetimes away. How easily were things subject to change. . . .

Perhaps, though, he mused, letting his gaze drift across the bustling surroundings and come to rest upon Arthur, some things were meant to remain.

Arthur, feeling Alfred's scrutiny, raised his head with an inquiring expression that faded to tenderness as he met his eyes. Alfred smiled gently, prompting the other's lips to assume the same form.

Contented with the answering softness in Arthur's eyes, Alfred straightened his glasses and glanced out of the window.

Evening had fallen over the city, streaking the air with dusky and subfusc hues. Along the edges of the pavement, the lamplighters had appeared, almost if they were akin to some sort of mythological creature of the night, like the ones Arthur was so fond of reading about. Alfred watched them light the gas streetlights, each a tiny brilliant flare held high against the mounting gloom.

Arthur was gazing out of the window as well, leaning his chin against his hand. He was clearly lost in thought as he followed the movements of the lamplighters through the dirty glass, perhaps making up some story in his mind.

"Shall we go now?" Alfred asked him; it was getting late and he'd finished with his shift.

"Hmm?" Arthur started, his eyes slightly unfocused. He took a few moments to weave his way back out of that absent-minded reverie before concentrating on Alfred. "Oh—yes, of course." He stood up.

"I'll be here tomorrow afternoon," Alfred told his employer, whose grunt of assent was the only reply he received.

"Are you leaving, Alfred?" Elizabeta called across the pub from where she was wrestling apart two drunkards who had spontaneously decided to go at each other, a twinge of disappointment in her voice.

"Yes, so you should arrive earlier for work if you want to see me," he said teasingly.

Elizabeta laughed as she came up to him, giving him a quick embrace followed by a good-natured thump to his head. "What gave you the idea that anyone would want to see you? Oh—I will be here rather late tonight. Would you mind checking to see if my apartment door is locked? I cannot remember if I locked it before I left. . . ."

"Of course, I will. You didn't have to ask. After all—this would not be the first time," he said, with a mischievous smirk. Elizabeta seemed to think that remark warranted another clout, which Alfred dodged laughingly. "I'll see you tomorrow, Elizabeta! Goodnight!"

"Goodbye, Alfred, and goodnight! Goodnight, Mr. Kirkland," she added, waving farewell to Arthur, who was standing by the door.

"Goodnight, Elizabeta," Arthur answered. "I am glad we could speak again."

Alfred opened the door, allowing Arthur to step out, and with a final wave to Elizabeta, closed it, shutting out the dissonant ruckus of the tavern. With the absence of noise, the urban hush fell upon their ears like the sheerest of gauze, punctuated only by the unmeasured footsteps of passersby and the murmur of automobile tires against asphalt.

Alfred tilted his face back as they strolled back down the way they'd come, letting the last vestiges of sunlight catch his glasses and diverge into a dazzling prism of gold. Inside, he savored the feeling of Arthur's closeness beside him, so near that their arms touched, so near that his hand brushed lightly against his wrist.

"There's still time yet before it gets too late," Arthur said after a pause. He inclined his head, sending the dark-blue light falling across his face, softly illuminating his features. "Would you like to get supper somewhere with me? Or . . . or do they expect you home early tonight?"

"Well, there's no one at home at this hour—my father is off either drinking or working, and my mother will most likely be out collecting laundry to be washed this week . . . so I think I ought to go home. Elizabeta wants me to check her apartment door, anyway, and I have a few lessons for the physics class that I should read over before tomorrow. Besides which . . . " Alfred cleared his throat slightly and focused his gaze on the worn leather of his shoes. " I haven't any money with me at the moment."

"Oh, Alfred." Alfred felt Arthur's hand, gentle and unobtrusive and reassuring, slip into his, hidden from the public eye in the mingling shadows of their sleeves. "You know that would not matter. If we went out to dine together, I would gladly pay for you."

"You are good enough to me as it is," Alfred answered honestly, skirting around the more pressing factor: he hated the feeling of being indebted to Arthur because he was unable to afford things. "I don't like to . . . take advantage of you like this, when I know that it is money that I can't return to you. It's difficult enough that you're paying for my tuition at the university, let alone other things."

"It is only one part of the tuition—" Arthur protested, but Alfred shook his head.

"It's most of it, Arthur, and you know it. And I know that it is not even the full fee the university would normally charge its students. It's not even the full charge, and I still cannot afford it. Instead, I have to rely on your kindness to me."

"You sound as if that makes you unhappy."

"Yes—and no . . . oh, Arthur, that isn't what I mean." Alfred let out a frustrated sigh. "Arthur, you do understand, if I had the money, I would not have to borrow it from you. It's not an easy thing, trying to make enough just to feed myself and pay for housing, and here you are, giving me the money for an education that I can't afford on my own, an education that no one of my station would even dream of. I _am_ grateful to you, Arthur, more than I could say. You've done so much for me. It just seems . . . unfair to you and me."

"This is a gift, Alfred." Arthur's voice was soft. "You deserve it. Don't think about whether or not you can pay it back. It's as I told you all those months ago—education should not have to revolve around money. It should be given to those who are worthy of it."

"Arthur—"

Alfred cut himself off, not knowing how to go on.

How could he explain this to Arthur; intelligent, eloquent Arthur, who had never before in his life truly wanted for something? Who knew ever so much—yet very little about _this _life, where every obligation was a curse and every wretched penny was possessively clutched? Who did not seem to understand that it simply wasn't _fair_, the way that Alfred could get at these things, at education, only because a gentleman had taken a fancy to him and was willing to give them to him? That otherwise, such an opportunity would be utterly impossible for him, and consequently it felt so very _wrong_?

"Alfred." Arthur's voice reached him. "Don't trouble your mind over this. Simply . . . think of it as a gift, from me."

The unspoken _please _in his words pulled at Alfred, and with an effort he summoned a bright smile. He had no reason to upset Arthur with his own discomfort; he was living his dream now, and surely that was enough.

"I'm sorry," he said, letting his thumb run lightly over Arthur's wrist in apology. "Thank you, I meant to say. You know how much I appreciate this."

Their footsteps halted at the edge of the pavement. By now, they had reached the street corner where Arthur's handsome Studebaker was parked; he'd left it there earlier that afternoon after his classes before walking to the pub with Alfred.

Alfred stood by, waiting as Arthur took a set of keys from the pocket of his jacket and unlocked the automobile door. As he opened it, he glanced back over his shoulder. "You're sure that I can't drive you home, Alfred?"

Alfred shook his head. "No, I'd rather walk, but thank you."

"You are always welcome, Alfred. I shall see you tomorrow morning, then."

Arthur had half slid into his seat, one hand still gripping the edge of the open automobile door as he glanced up at Alfred through his lashes. For one trembling moment, he hesitated, before stepping back out and (_slowly, tentatively_) slipping his arms around Alfred's shoulders. Alfred's hand reached up, weaving his fingers with Arthur's as his other arm encircled his waist, pulling him closer into the embrace.

For several brief, transcendent seconds—or perhaps it was an eternity—they stood there at the deserted street intersection, arms tied about each other, and for Alfred, nothing else existed but for the soft brush of Arthur's hair against his face and the sensation of his heartbeat, fleeting and warm, against his.

* * *

><p>After dashing hastily across the street to inspect Elizabeta's door (she had indeed locked it), Alfred returned home to his own apartment. His footfalls were cautious on the stairs, so as not to disturb any of the other tenants.<p>

The door greeted him with a hollow creak when he swung it open, revealing the bare, silent apartment where he had lived for the past nineteen years of his life.

Yes, this was home—the poorly whitewashed walls with what few faded pictures they held, the threadbare curtains drawn tightly closed, casting a dim gloom over the surroundings, the loose worn floorboards, the solitary table at the head of the room with its single lamp.

A quick glance about the vacant room confirmed his earlier predictions: the absence of the two large laundry hampers that normally stood against the far wall indicated that his mother was out, and he knew from experience that she would not be back until late. His father's overcoat was missing from the rack, and Alfred knew that he, too, would not soon return.

His parents' absence was a small blessing, promising an evening blissfully devoid of their serrated criticism and ill-aimed vitriol. Alfred welcomed the solitude eagerly, the unfamiliar feeling of returning home to quiet peacefulness.

He lit the lamp on the table, filling the small space with flickering shadows, and went into the kitchen. In a short while, there was a pot on the stove brimming with boiling water for soup, and Alfred was leaning against the table, poring over one of his physics textbooks as he sipped from a cup of coffee.

What wondrous things there were to be found and observed in the incredible macrocosm of physics! His blue eyes, behind their glasses, narrowed in intense concentration as he skimmed paragraphs of text, before flicking across to diagrams and pages filled with mathematical equations. Absorbed as he was, Alfred descended into a focused trance as he calculated and analyzed, taking in the information with a powerful curiosity.

He took no notice of the passage of time, and it was some while later when he finally leaned back from his books and stretched, removing his glasses and rubbing his aching eyes. The apartment was very dark by now, the only source of light being the small lamp on the table. The cup of coffee sat forgotten and cold amid the strew of sheets of diagrams written in Alfred's scrawl.

Alfred rested one elbow on the table, thinking as he ran the other hand absentmindedly through his dark gold hair.

It had been several months since he had first accepted Arthur's offer to arrange his admission into several of the classes at the university. He had vaguely mentioned to his parents that he had been attending lessons someplace, but they had no idea of the full extent of the situation: that he intended to achieve a degree in physics, that his education was attained only at Arthur's expense.

Neither did he feel that they had earned the right to know. His dreams of becoming an inventor and a scientist were too precious to betray to his parents, and to have them deride and trample them before his eyes, just as they had done to everything else in his life, was unthinkable. A few things, at least, deserved to remain intact.

Still, perhaps . . . one day, he could make them understand. Oh, how he yearned to explain the multitude of possibilities to every person he met, how he could see the answers to the problems that he encountered day after day in the technology of the next age. The answers were _there_, in the arches of the twentieth-century towers, in the motion of comfortable luxury cars. How could he make the world see?

Set adrift in a wandering reverie, he lost himself in his immense, brilliant plans, as in his mind's eye he began to sketch down the designs for the inventions and advancements of the future, for a world surpassing all imagination . . . a world that he, Alfred Jones, had created.

* * *

><p><strong>Ahhh. I'm not cut out for writing things like this. XD Still, it was fun! I'm so in love with USUK that it probably isn't normal. XD<strong>

**Concerning the sections on quantum physics and _Antigone_: those were merely ways for me to sneak in my own interests into a USUK story, but I think they fit with Alfred and Arthur respectively, lawl! **

**I focused a lot on Alfred's side of the story in this, exploring his childhood and memories, but in the next chapter, I'll be focusing on Arthur's high-society world. I'll probably put the party scene in it, too. ;)**

**The phrases that I borrowed/altered from Death Cab's beautiful "20th-Century Towers" are:**

**"what a tragic way to see our final days"  
>"The answers are in the arches of the twentieth-century towers, and in comfortable cars in motion."<strong>

** I hope you enjoyed the chapter! Please review and let me know what you liked and what you didn't, and what I could improve on. I'll always be happy to receive your feedback, be it negative or positive! **

**Thank you so much! **


	2. ii: little bribes

**Hello, everyone . . . it's Nightfall again. **

**First of all, please let me apologize profusely for not updating this fic since September. SEPTEMBER. **

**That . . . that's kind of long. I blame school and extracurriculars for screwing me over and completely taking over what little life I originally had in the first place - that is, assuming that I had a life to begin with. **

**Thank you so much, to all of you who reviewed, faved, and/or alerted. You truly are the pushing force behind the writing of this second chapter; otherwise I would mostly likely have left this entire story to languish and eventually fade into oblivion, and that's never a good thing. Every time I entertained the thought of just letting this story slide and fade back a little, I'd get some sort of FF alert that would surprise me and make me think, "Whoa! There are still people reading my crap?" and the like. **

**So, yes, it took me almost four months to churn out this chapter, and it was definitely not easy. School and my daily life sap my creative energy, and it took many, MANY hours of sitting in front of the computer with a blank expression on my face, surfing YouTube and tumblr, and listening incessantly to indie/alt rock. (I'm looking at you, DCFC, Keane, and Built to Spill. What on earth would I do without you?)**

**I'd also like to apologize to the people who I haven't PM'ed in, uh, four months. Don't worry, my social life in reality is suffering the same way. D: **

**I shall cease rambling for now - I hope you enjoy the chapter. **

* * *

><p>Sunlight drifted in through the half-open window, settling in golden motes across the mahogany surfaces of the desks. In the unexpected warmth of the afternoon, it was like a spell: a cloud of lethargic languor alighted upon the classroom, leaving nodding heads and drowsy eyelids in its wake.<p>

Arthur Kirkland, however, was perfectly awake. Leaning back against his chair, he tapped out a quiet rhythm with his fountain pen against the desk as he surveyed the professor standing at the head of the room, wondering if he had yet noticed that over two-thirds of his class were no longer paying attention. The lecture had long ago devolved into incoherent rambling over some literary theme or other, and Arthur had ceased to take notes, occupying himself instead with drafting one of the many papers that he still had to complete before the term's end.

Raising his head, he cut a glance across the room at Francis Bonnefoy, who was seated on the opposite side, his desk placed slightly apart from the others—the reason for this being that every professor in the university knew full well of his wanton behavior, and had taken precautions to ensure that he would not be trifling with his fellow students in the middle of a class. He, too, seemed quite awake, if rather disinterested. Arthur watched him fidget about in his seat for a few moments, sigh impatiently, then remove a small mirror from his pocket and glare critically at his hair.

Arthur snorted and turned his eyes back to the open notebook before him. There was no danger of Francis falling asleep now, he knew; his incredibly inflated vanity would keep him occupied for hours.

He had meant to return to writing his draft, but he found himself turning instead to the back pages of the notebook, where he'd scribbled down several ideas for a novel he'd had several days earlier. Arthur's lips curved into a small smile as he gazed at the words that contained his hopeful dreams, and he brushed his fingers against the page.

_Not yet, _he reminded himself. _Not until you finish the term and graduate . . . but soon._

The clock chimed three, stirring Arthur from his thoughts and sending many of the other students jolting from their seats in alarm. The professor, too, gazed about himself distractedly, as if he had been woken from a distant trance.

"Ah—good day, gentlemen!" he bellowed after his already-retreating pupils. "Remember to review the class notes, and your expositions are also due the next time we meet!"

Arthur heaved a quiet sigh as he leant across to retrieve his satchel; yet more work that demanded his precious time to complete.

Clipped footsteps announced the approach of Francis Bonnefoy as he drew up beside Arthur's desk, concealing a lazy yawn behind a delicately angled hand, as if the mere act of sitting through class had exhausted him.

"Our dear professor seems to be losing his wits more and more with each passing day," Francis declared, slanting a glance across the room. "Did you even listen to half of the drivel he was babbling about today?" He shook his head disgustedly as they left the classroom. "I am far too beautiful to have been in there for so long. All of this being closeted indoors for hours on end—oh, mon Dieu, it will do horrors to my complexion."

"Perhaps you would appreciate the class more if you listened, you frog," Arthur snapped, "as opposed to admiring your hair at all hours of the day. I haven't any idea how you are even still passing."

Francis pouted, placing a protective hand over his carefully arranged blond hair, which he wore at a supposedly fashionable length so that it could be tied back with a ribbon. "Perhaps you think that _I _am the one losing my wits, Arthur? You wound me—you of all people should be aware of my cunning intelligence."

Arthur snorted.

"I beg to differ," he retorted, pulling open the door that led out into the university courtyards. Bright sunlight fell across the threshold, blinding him momentarily. "When you informed me that your profession of choice was literary critic, I nearly died right then and there, out of sheer amusement."

"Must you always be so cruel to me, my friend?" Francis sighed heavily and stepped outside onto the path, turning back to face Arthur. "Very well, since we are making no headway on this subject of conversation, let us move on to another." He tilted his head at Arthur as they walked, letting his gaze linger searchingly upon him. "Your charming young companion. The handsome Américain. You are meeting him shortly, are you not?"

Arthur stopped abruptly and whirled to face him sharply, narrowing his eyes.

"You stay away from him," he ordered. "Haven't you got a couple of girls to go skirt-chasing after? Or have you tired of flirting with the teachers, you filthy libertine? I've enough to do without having to worry about you violating Alfred."

Francis let out a loud, delighted laugh. He put a hand on Arthur's shoulder, but the other man shrugged it off crossly.

"How defensive you are, Arthur!" he exclaimed. "I was merely asking a very simple, very innocent question—but here you interpret it as an attempt on my part to make an advance upon your dear Alfred. Fear not, mon cher; I am fully aware of how your romantic life has suffered these past few years. I certainly will not try to take a potential lover from you. The fact that he has not fled from you within a month says much about this relationship of yours."

"Why do you find it so difficult to hold your tongue, Francis?" Arthur snapped. "My affairs are my own. I can do without your insulting and unnecessary comments."

"There is another thing," Francis noted after a pause. "Why is it that your _own_ vile tongue is never evident around him, Arthur? I have asked you this once before—several times before—but you have always declined to answer."

"That is because I am not obliged to," Arthur said coldly, striding down the winding stone path away from him. "And perhaps it is because I find Alfred to be far more pleasant company than you are."

"More pleasant company?" Francis echoed, hurrying after him. "Who could ever entertain better than myself, Arthur? Non, I feel the reason why you keep such a tight check on your temper around him is because you are afraid of repulsing him."

"Then you would be incorrect." Arthur's voice was tense. "Why don't you keep a check on your own words, Francis."

"Whatever you say, Arthur." Francis drew out a labored sigh that made it almost insultingly evident that he did not believe him. "Just know that it is impossible to hide your true nature from the world forever." He glanced off to the side, his blue eyes narrowing slightly in recognition. "Ah, and speaking of your petit amour . . . here he comes now."

Perhaps more grateful than he'd care to admit for the opportunity to end his current conversation with Francis, Arthur turned to see three figures strolling through the gate at the far end of the courtyard. One of them was a powerfully built man with slicked blond hair, whom he recognized immediately as Ludwig Beilschmidt. A slender, brown-haired young man with rather hunched shoulders walked beside him, seeming very small in comparison. Arthur knew him as Toris Lorinaitis, a somewhat timid and nervous character, but Alfred had mentioned that he was an especial friend of his. Alfred himself was strolling beside Toris, looking almost unbearably handsome with his face glowing in the sunlight and his dark-blond hair shining like burnished gold. The sound of his laughter was audible even across the vast rows of bright flowers.

"Good afternoon," Arthur said as they drew near; he glanced out of the corner of his eye at Alfred, whose smile widened in response. A quiet snort at his side drew his attention, and he turned to see Francis watching with raised eyebrows indicating that he had not missed the exchange.

"Kirkland. Bonnefoy." Ludwig nodded at each of them in turn in his taciturn way, barely pausing as he sorted through a sheaf of papers tucked in his arm. Toris smiled shyly, while Alfred shuffled a little impatiently, seeming to be unable to keep his eyes off Arthur.

"Ah, Alfred, mon cher," Francis enthused, sweeping forward to the other man's side. "I trust that you remember me?"

Alfred tore his gaze hurriedly away from Arthur and considered Francis for a while, tilting his head to the side. "Oh! Uh . . . hello, Francis. I haven't seen you in a while."

"A shame, is it not?" The Frenchman sighed, placing his hand on Alfred's arm. From the corner of his eye, Francis saw Arthur glowering at him. "Do not let this stuffy old Briton take up too much of your time. I do so enjoy the conversations that we share, however few that may be."

"Oh . . . of course," Alfred said awkwardly. He cut a quick glance at Toris, as if begging for help, but the other man could only offer a tiny, bewildered hitch of his shoulders.

"If you'll excuse me," Arthur cut in sharply, "I am afraid Francis and I must take ourselves off." He gave a quick jab at Francis's arm. "Come, do you want to be late for Latin class again?"

Ludwig straightened the sheaf of papers in his arm. "We must be along as well, Mr. Jones, Mr. Lorinaitis. We have our report on general relativity to present this afternoon."

"Very well," Toris agreed quietly, while Alfred grinned at him.

"You can't ever call us by our first names, can you, Ludwig?"

Francis lifted his hand in a wave. "Farewell, Alfred. I hope I shall see you again soon. And the same to you, Toris, Ludwig."

"Alfred, I will see you tonight," Arthur called after him as the three men made their way across the courtyard, and was pleased when Alfred turned and waved cheerfully at him in response before disappearing through the door.

Francis smirked smugly at him. "Such a delightful young man, he is. If he can be wooed by someone such as yourself, I would certainly have no problem with him, oui?"

Arthur leveled a furious glare at him.

"What the hell was that about, frog-face?" he hissed in a voice unmistakably full of venom as he grabbed Francis's arm none-too-gently and steered him towards the east-facing door. "That was disgusting—must you take your coarse, blatant flirting to _my _Alfred? Haven't you enough gullible youths and barmaids to practice your obscenities on?"

Francis tugged his arm free and stepped a pace away, feigning an expression of wide-eyed hurt.

"Arthur, Arthur, how could you think that your dearest friend would ever do such a thing to you? I was merely being friendly and acquainting myself with your sweetheart. After all, you are clearly enamored of him and I can see that we shall be spending a great deal of time in each other's company in the future."

"There is a very thin line between friendliness and coquetry," Arthur ground out, "and you are treading on it. Leave us both be."

"Do you not think that you are deceiving the boy, acting this way?" Francis's tone suddenly grew serious, losing all traces of his previous teasing. "This is not something you can take lightly, mon ami. Have you considered what could happen, should you lose your temper with him? It is all very well now, with you happily in love and feeling mild and good-tempered, but love does not always follow a smooth path—as we both know well."

"Do you think that Alfred cannot accept me as I am?" Arthur snapped, stung by Francis's words. By now, they were nearing the lecture hall where their class was to take place, and he lowered his voice. "I assure you, I am not _hiding _anything from him. And I have no fear of anyone taking him from me—least of all you."

A slow smile of amusement spread across Francis's face as the two of them entered the vast lecture hall and seated themselves in the back row.

"Is that so?" His voice, though soft, rang with gentle mockery. "Rest assured that it shall not be _me _who attempts to steal him from you. It seems that even you sometimes forget the most basic rule of l'amour. As our professor would put it—_omnia iusta sunt amore belloque._"

* * *

><p>"Are you all right, Alfred?" Arthur asked, glancing over his shoulder.<p>

He was answered by the glint of a streetlamp's light refracting off the other man's glasses in the dark, as well as a shaky intake of breath. The great building before them stood impassively waiting, its windows glowing with inviting golden light that spilled out across the steps fanning out from the doors and onto the pavement. There were far grander ones on the wealthier avenues, Arthur knew, most exclusively reserved for the highest of high society, but as far as privileged social clubs went, this one did quite nicely—elegantly faced with white stone, with beautifully tiered columns and the serene features of a Greek muse carved above the mantel, and arched frames inset with curving windows.

Of course, he'd seen his share of exquisite architecture back home in England, having lived in an impressive manor for most of his childhood and been shipped from one expensive boarding school to another. He hadn't given any thought before as to how imposing such a display of affluence might seem to someone of a humbler background.

"You . . . you're certain they'll let me in there?"

The younger man's voice was tinged so openly with fear and hesitation that Arthur instinctively took his hand and pressed it briefly, comfortingly. The poor boy; of course he was daunted by the sight of all the grandeur and refinement that he himself had always taken for granted. He wasn't to know how to behave in such a situation, so naturally he would feel more than a little intimidated.

(It was a refreshing change, actually, being out with someone who did not pompously flaunt his wealth at every turn, who would not bore him silly with talk of snobbery and ill-spirited gossip, who did not think that money and privilege could secure adoration, who was drawn to his person and not to his esteem.

Still, he had to wonder whether or not he was being too forward—inviting a man whose acquaintance he had made barely over three hours ago to this party. Did Alfred think that _he _was pompous? he thought with a sudden rush of panic. Perhaps inviting him to such a setting had been too presumptuous; he certainly didn't want to appear as if he were showing off or anything of the sort, though Alfred did seem to genuinely like him and hadn't raised any protest against Arthur's courtship of him—)

"You are my guest," Arthur told him. "I am sure they will let you in. It isn't particularly formal company that we'll be meeting with, besides; do not worry. I know you shall enjoy yourself."

Alfred lifted his head, meeting Arthur's encouraging smile with uncertainty in his blue eyes. Finally, he managed to summon the wavering ghost of a grin in return.

"A - all right. If you say so."

Arthur gave his hand another reassuring squeeze (_good lad_) and led him up the steps. As they passed through the doors into the foyer, he caught sight of a group of young men, laughing raucously as they hung their coats up on the wall. Tensing, he quickened his pace, intending to walk past them as quickly as possible, but halted as he realized that Alfred was no longer moving. He glanced back to see what had arrested his companion, and saw that he was standing still in the middle of the foyer, his eyes wide with wonder as he took in the scene.

Arthur smiled and tilted his head, following Alfred's line of sight to the enormous cut-glass chandelier which hung, resplendent in faceted brilliance, from the ceiling. He did not usually give it particular attention, but he supposed Alfred had never seen such things before. The younger man's fascinated gaze trailed over the fine oak paneling and heavy wine-colored draperies, seemingly enchanted with everything it took in.

(_"It is a lovely hall, is it not?" Arthur inquired of his dinner companion as the pair swept through the doors_—_this night he was the son of a prominent jeweller, his very tone dripping with the suggestion of diamonds and rubies weighted upon heavy brass scales when he spoke. _

_"Lovely?" The man snorted, waving a hand dismissively. "Do you truly think so, Mr. Kirkland? You must never have been to Longfellow's Club, further downtown_—_now _there _is where you shall see decent décor. Fine imported paintings on the walls, gold and silver laid out on the tables . . . it would put this place to shame, indeed." He gave a disgusted snort. "This is all so mediocre."_)

"This is all so beautiful, Arthur. . . ."

Alfred's soft, awestruck whisper shook Arthur from his thoughts. "Hmm?"

"The chandelier." Alfred's eyes were alight with enthusiasm. "It looks so delicate. And the patterns on the floor, it must have taken such a long time to lay out . . . " He cut himself off abruptly, blushing as he realized that he was rambling. "Oh—I'm sorry."

"Don't be." Arthur smiled warmly. "If you admire the chandelier, though, you might like the one in the main hall. Come, I think it is about time we went in."

They were greeted by the soft notes of a classical piece when they entered the room. It was vast, though somewhat lower-ceilinged, with the chandelier that Arthur had mentioned suspended in its centre, throwing jeweled light from myriad glass drops over white-clothed tables arranged about a raised stage, with a bar serving drinks in the back. A magnificent grand piano blossomed its rich ebony tones from upon the stage, and as Alfred and Arthur approached, they saw that a man was seated at it, his eyes closed and his fingers gliding masterfully above the keys.

"That man is Roderich Edelstein," Arthur murmured to Alfred. "He does not attend my university, but is studying music at a different school. He is a professional pianist and comes here often to play."

Roderich Edelstein finished his piece and stood up from the piano, to scattered, appreciative applause from those below the stage. He was a serious-faced young man with dark brown hair and glasses perched at an imperious angle on his nose, dressed in a deep violet coat embroidered with gold. His very posture exuded elegance and sophistication; he was well-known among the community for his private musical education and an illustrious ancestry traced through Austrian aristocracy. Arthur had often visited the club just to listen to Roderich play—his music had the charms to soothe a savage breast, as the saying went.

"Arthur." Roderich, descending the steps of the stage, had caught sight of him. He crossed the room to shake hands with him. "It is good to see you."

"And you," Arthur responded. He gestured towards the piano. "The piece that you were playing a moment ago sounded wonderful."

"Thank you. It is a piece in the impressionist style, by Claude Debussy. Have you ever heard of him? A French composer. Exquisite music." His eyes drifted over Arthur's shoulder, landing on Alfred. "Ah—I don't believe we've ever met, have we?"

"This is Alfred Jones, a new friend of mine." Discreetly, Arthur nudged him forward, smiling reassuringly when Alfred glanced back at him hesitantly. "He has been good enough to accompany me to the party tonight."

"Pleased to meet you, Mr. Jones." Roderich offered his hand, which Alfred shook. Arthur gave silent thanks that Roderich seemed in an amiable enough mood tonight, and had not made any comment on the quality of Alfred's clothing or anything else that would have caused him to feel self-conscious. "You are not studying at Arthur's university, are you? I thought that I would have seen you before, if you were . . . it seems that these irresponsible university scoundrels are always about the place, drinking their evenings away."

Arthur chuckled uncomfortably as Roderich sent a very pointed look in his direction, which Alfred followed with some confusion. He would rather have died than confess it, but he could not deny that on (far too) many occasions, he had been found in a thoroughly humiliating state of inebriation, engaging in somewhat-less-than-appropriate behavior.

"Please . . . Roderich, do not embarrass me." He spoke as charmingly as he could, hoping that the pianist would grasp his meaning and refrain from revealing any further instances of indignity.

To his credit, Roderich said no more about the subject, which was tremendous restraint for him; he had lectured the university students many a memorable evening on the absolute disreputability of their character (which inevitably would lead up to his haughty proclamation of "I shall now express how utterly disgusted with you all I am through the piano" and several hours of Chopin or Beethoven).

"I - I actually don't attend Arthur's university, but I'd like to become a physicist," Alfred said, stuttering slightly.

Roderich looked impressed.

"A physicist—that is the very profession that my friend Ludwig Beilschmidt is studying towards. I confess I know little about the field, but perhaps when Ludwig arrives, you could speak to him about it."

"I'll do that, thank you."

A burst of laughter pealed out at the other end of the hall, and they turned to see a slight, pale-haired man, attired in a dark blue suit, charging through the doors. His eyes were wild with mirth, and he seemed not to care that many in the room were turning dirty glances in his direction or moving well out of his vicinity. A taller man with slicked blond hair followed him, sighing wearily and passing his hand over his forehead.

"Mein Gott," Arthur heard Roderich mutter disgustedly from behind him. "There goes that fool again. He hasn't any sense of decorum or modesty at all. How he dares to come here behaving that way, I'd like to know. . . ."

"Who is that?" Alfred asked, looking bewildered.

"Gilbert Beilschmidt." Roderich pronounced the name as if eating something bitter. "Otherwise known as the first person that society would like to ostracize. A rude, mischief-making miscreant who obviously has never grown up—I cannot see the barest hint of a resemblance between him and his brother. I would not be surprised if he were drunk already."

They watched Gilbert's demented flight across the floor, cutting between tables and bounding past chairs. His brother, Ludwig, trailed after him, weakly imploring, "Please, bruder, do not embarrass yourself . . ."

Gilbert only cackled and ascended the stage in one dangerous leap, coat-tails flapping. He peered out over the room, a delighted expression appearing on his face when he caught sight of Roderich, whose enormous scowl should have by all rights burnt the eyebrows off his forehead.

"Why, hello there, aristocrat!" he crowed. "Come to play the piano for us, have you?" He fluttered his hands in the air before him in a mocking imitation of Roderich's skillful fingers.

Roderich reddened, but managed to keep his glare fixed firmly in place.

"Why are you even here, you miscreant?" he demanded. "Other than to completely disrupt this party, I mean. Ludwig!" He confronted the taller of the two brothers. "Why did you bring him?"

"It was not my choice, Roderich." Ludwig sighed heavily. "You know very well what my bruder is like. It is not easy to talk him out of the prospect of alcohol and readily annoyed people."

"What? Are you not pleased to see me, Roddy?" Gilbert crooned, spreading his arms wide. Arthur was put in mind of a large, manic bird. "I know you enjoy my company, even if you won't say so yourself!"

"Do not delude yourself," Roderich said coldly.

Gilbert snorted and sat down with a graceless thud on the edge of the stage, rolling his odd wild eyes. "Very well, then, if you are going to be so uptight all night. . . . Where is Basch? Now, _he_ is always up for a bit of excitement!"

"I do not know," Roderich sniffed haughtily. "He said that he had to remain home to look after Lili, though my understanding is that he refused to come in order to avoid _you_."

Gilbert sulked visibly before narrowing his eyes at Arthur and Alfred, who were standing beside Roderich.

"Oh, hello, Arthur. Lovely to see you. How unfortunate it is that you are just as uptight as Roderich—that is, until you have had a couple of drinks poured into you." Cackling gleefully, he leapt off the stage and approached them. "But who is this? I haven't seen you here before," he mused, addressing Alfred. "I suppose you came to make the acquaintance of none other than the awe-inspiring Gilbert Beilschmidt?"

"He came to meet civilized company," Arthur snapped, "and I hardly think that you meet the standards. In any case, this is my companion, Alfred Jones."

"Companion, eh?" Gilbert smirked and raised his eyebrows suggestively. "So you have got yourself another one, Arthur! He looks a good deal more intelligent than the last one, so let us hope that you can keep him longer. Now, Alfred, is it?" Gilbert wrapped an arm around Alfred's shoulders, pulling him away from Arthur and leaning in conspiratorially. "Believe me, you would much rather spend time with me than that tedious lot. I will tell you that right now, before you waste too many of your hours on stupid, straight-laced highbrows like Roderich. Whenever they begin boring you, you ought to come find me and my friends. Now, _we _know how to have a good time!"

"A - all right," Alfred answered, stumbling backwards in surprise as Gilbert suddenly shoved him away and vaulted forward to greet a tall, elegant man in the midst of a group of others standing at the doors. Arthur recognized them as the group he had seen in the foyer, and only just managed to refrain from swearing aloud.

"Francis!" Gilbert clapped the man enthusiastically on the shoulder, causing him to wince slightly. "Gott sei Dank, you are finally here. Perhaps this party will not be wholly ruined, after all."

"Mon Dieu, are you drunk already?" The newcomer scowled disapprovingly. "As much as I appreciate your affectionate greetings, I do not enjoy having to deal with the havoc that you cause immediately after arriving at a party."

"Ah, but we have more important affairs to deal with tonight." Smirking, Gilbert draped one arm over Francis's shoulder and beckoned him to lean in closer. "Unfortunately, Basch could not make it; I suspect he's still sore about our little prank involving him and Roderich at the last party. However . . . Arthur has brought his new little gentleman-friend with him tonight."

Arthur glared, bitterly observing the way Francis jolted with surprise at those words and looked disbelievingly at Gilbert. The situation was difficult enough for Alfred without Gilbert prancing off to Francis and gossiping about him like a man's buttinsky mother-in-law.

Under normal circumstances, Arthur would have confronted Gilbert and given him a good dose of verbal (and most likely, physical) virulence, consequences be damned, but tonight was different; tonight he was with someone he genuinely liked, and he felt a curious need to keep up appearances.

He swallowed his fury and, seeing that Alfred was beginning to look flustered and uneasy, took his hand gently, narrowing his eyes at Francis as he approached to let him know not to expect any sort of welcome from him.

"Hello, Francis," he said coolly.

"Arthur, mon ami," Francis purred in a voice as silken as the azure suit he was wearing, "how charming it is to see you again. How are you this evening?"

"I was having a fairly lovely time." Arthur placed a slight emphasis on _was_.

Alfred's eyes flickered between the pair; no doubt he had sensed the tension crackling like dry summer air off of a cat's fur.

Francis pouted. "Now, Arthur. There is no need to be so ill-tempered. This is a party, is it not?"

"I know what you want, you salacious frog," Arthur snapped. "And to spare both your and my time, I will address the point directly, before you and Gilbert go on tittle-tattling like a pair of old wives. Alfred Jones," he said, gesturing to his companion, "has done me the honor of accompanying me as my guest tonight. As he is new to the company assembled here, I trust that you will not make unseemly impressions and disgrace yourselves."

Francis's eyebrows lifted as he gazed at Alfred, and his eyes went half-masted for a moment. "My, my! He is quite a bit handsomer than your last escort," he murmured, eyeing Alfred with such blatant interest that Arthur was seized by the urge to hit him. "Wherever did you find him, Arthur? I would never have expected to see you accompanied by someone of such attractive appearance."

Alfred reddened, apparently very uncomfortable under the intensity of Francis's attention. Arthur knew all too well the disconcerting feeling of being visually undressed by the Frenchman's gaze, having been subjected to it many times himself at the beginning of their mutual acquaintance before he finally struck Francis in the face (leaving a bruise of considerable size and endurance) and told him in no uncertain terms that the same would happen again if he did not cease staring inappropriately.

"I did not _find _him anywhere," Arthur replied sharply, resenting the way Francis seemed to be suggesting that he had merely taken Alfred along to show him off, as one might exhibit a piece of jewelry or an expensive garment. Oh, he had never forgotten how cruel and keen-edged the probing tongue of society was, but it did not make him hate it any less.

"No?" Francis formed the syllable with delicate precision, clearly inviting further clarification, but when none was forthcoming, he sighed and turned instead to Alfred. "Very well, if you insist on being so close-lipped . . . Now, Alfred, as I assume you and Arthur are so _very_ close, I am sure he has mentioned me, his dearest friend?"

". . . not exactly," Alfred said after a lengthened pause.

"My dear, I am Francis Bonnefoy." Francis smiled ingratiatingly. "Do pardon my idle curiosity. You must understand that when I hear tell that Arthur has found himself a new companion, I would of course be interested. Tell me, how exactly did you meet darling Arthur?"

Alfred stiffened, but Arthur had already intervened: "He does not have to answer to you, so you can kindly leave off with the interrogation. I have promised Alfred my company this evening, so if you'll excuse us."

Without waiting for an answer, he turned abruptly on his heel and walked away, guiding Alfred with him.

"I should be delighted to see more of you in future, Alfred!" Francis called after them; Arthur could hear the smirk in his tone and gritted his teeth, attempting to direct his mind away from the double meaning that that statement encompassed. "Arthur, I shall be by later. You cannot ignore me forever, you know."

"I can bloody well try," Arthur muttered savagely as he made his way with Alfred towards the back of the room, well away from Francis and other prying eyes. "Now, Alfred, shall we have something to drink? Or a meal, even, if you are hungry."

"A drink would be fine, thank you."

Alfred was quiet for a moment, and Arthur thought to ask if he was well, but decided not to press it for the time being. When their champagne arrived, amber-colored and frothing, Arthur picked up his glass and clinked it against the side of Alfred's.

"Thank you for coming here with me tonight," he said. "I know that this all must be rather overwhelming, but I do hope that you are enjoying yourself."

Alfred nodded vehemently, choking slightly as the champagne slid too quickly down his throat. Arthur stretched his hand across the table to pat his shoulder.

"I'm sorry," Alfred managed at last, glancing up at him with a wry expression. "I don't drink all that often, really, though this wine is very good."

"I thought you were employed at a pub," Arthur said, amused.

"Yes, but one of us needs to remain sober." Alfred laughed, the tension in his face dissolving as he did so. He seemed more at ease now, perhaps because they had distanced themselves from Francis and the others.

"I apologize for that . . . ah, little incident back there. With Francis." Arthur nodded his head in the Frenchman's direction, lowering his voice. "He has always been an insufferable, intrusive git. Unfortunately, he was the first person to 'befriend' me, technically, when I arrived here, and ever since he has been completely unable to keep his nose out of my private life. If it was not already common knowledge that he flirts widely, I would have thought that he had designs on me himself."

"I wouldn't be surprised." Alfred hesitated, parting his lips if he were about to say something else, but closed his mouth again.

"What is it, Alfred?" Arthur asked gently.

"It's nothing, really. I . . . I was just wondering why Gilbert and Francis were so interested . . ."

He trailed off awkwardly, but Arthur understood what he was asking. He set down his glass, inwardly cursing Francis with all his might.

"Well, Alfred . . . there are the obvious reasons, of course. You are new to our company—and certainly they find you fascinating and handsome . . ." He felt himself flush at that, and lowered his gaze to the table in heated embarrassment, though a stolen glance at Alfred revealed that he had similarly reddened. "Then there remains the fact that I haven't had much luck in the way of beaus for quite a while. Francis has often teased me because of it."

Alfred's stunned expression in response was enough to make the color flood back to Arthur's skin once more.

"That cannot be true," he said in disbelief, before clearing his throat and looking shyly away. "Ah, I mean . . . I don't see how anyone would _not _want to be with you."

Arthur swallowed and focused his attention on his champagne glass, well aware of his burning face.

"That—that is very kind of you to say, Alfred. I confess that I haven't much of an idea as to what others have thought of me in the past . . . but I do know that you are the first person I have ever truly enjoyed spending time and talking with."

Alfred's strikingly blue eyes were on his then, wide with astonishment. Arthur's heart knocked lightly against his ribs as he gazed back at him, and he found himself inexplicably unable (_or unwilling_) to pull away.

"Is that true?" Alfred asked tentatively, cautiously, almost as if the words would burn his tongue if he spoke too quickly.

Perhaps it was the alcohol, perhaps it was the sheer incredulity of this entire remarkable evening. "Yes."

"Excuse me, Mr. Kirkland?"

And suddenly, there was a brief tap on his shoulder. Caught off guard, Arthur twisted about in his chair only to see Ludwig Beilschmidt, who was standing there stiffly with a vaguely uncomfortable expression on his face.

"I am sorry if I am interrupting anything," he said, "but I felt obliged to apologize for Gilbert's behavior earlier. My bruder speaks loosely and irresponsibly when he drinks, but he does not mean it." He sighed heavily. "I do not know what has gotten into him tonight; I hope that you will pardon him."

"It is quite all right," Arthur said hurriedly, to put him at ease, though in truth there was nothing he would have liked better than to have Gilbert forcibly removed from the premises. He watched the pale-haired man standing in the distance, once again engaged in quarreling with Roderich, and idly wondered why no one had thought to do so already.

"None of you have any sense of humor!" Gilbert was loudly accusing. "If I didn't come to these parties of yours, there wouldn't be any merrymaking whatsoever. Everything would be left up to you and your stuffy rules, and you would be doing something absurd like . . . like rationing the alcohol!"

Ludwig shook his head resignedly as Gilbert and Roderich continued to bicker. "Please do not be alarmed if he begins singing or dancing," he muttered, looking very pained. He turned to Alfred. "I hope that my bruder's antics have not put you off from joining any of our future gatherings, Mr. . . .?"

"Jones," Alfred supplied. "Alfred Jones."

Ludwig shook his hand. "I am Ludwig Beilschmidt. It is a pleasure to meet you."

Recognition sparked in Alfred's eyes, and he shot a swift, panicked glance at Arthur before taking a deep breath and blurting, "Uhm—Mr. Edelstein says that you're interested in physics?"

"Oh, yes." Ludwig nodded. "I am fortunate to be working with a very good physics program over at Mansfield University. Recently we have been investigating Schrödinger's equations and theories. Are you also a physics student?"

"My knowledge is very basic," Alfred said honestly.

"Perhaps you would like to speak with several of the other students in the physics program," Ludwig offered, gesturing towards a group of men at another table. "We are always pleased to meet new physics enthusiasts. Mr. Kirkland, if you would not mind?"

"Not at all." Arthur smiled genially as Ludwig led Alfred towards the other table, seeing how the physics students looked up at their arrival and stood, introducing themselves and exchanging handshakes. Alfred glanced back over his shoulder at Arthur, who nodded encouragingly and lifted his empty glass, indicating that he would have it refreshed.

He had just pulled away from the bar to return to the table with his drink when he found himself suddenly accosted by Francis. Arthur looked away in disgust.

"So we meet again, Francis. Why is it that I cannot have even a few seconds of peace alone without you intruding upon it?"

Francis raised an eyebrow. "I am certain that Alfred has yet to experience this cruel side of your tongue." He reached out and patted Arthur's hand, only for the Englishman to snatch it angrily away. "Stay and entertain me, mon ami."

Arthur hesitated for a moment, before finally leaning back against the bar, sipping his champagne and refusing to meet Francis's eyes.

"I have never seen you like this before," Francis mused, smoothing one hand through his hair. "Usually when you come accompanied by another man, you will act terribly bored throughout the entire affair and then become sickeningly drunk by the end of the night. At this time, your companion will have long fled in revulsion, and I will take mercy on your pitiful state and drive you home."

"Must you forget that I often do the very same thing for you?" Arthur retorted. "There has been many an evening when I have had to haul you home myself either because Gilbert called one too many drinks for you, or because you were drinking away the sorrows of rejection."

"Ah, but you are drunk far oftener than I." Francis tapped the side of Arthur's glass. "How many drinks have you had, hmm?"

"This is my second."

"Only your second? And how many are you planning to have?"

Arthur drained the rest of his champagne and set his glass decisively down on the bar. "I am finished. I will be driving home tonight."

"Oh? So you are actually planning to stay sober long enough to drive. Now, why would you do such a thing when you have me to drag your misbegotten drunken self home instead?" Francis teased.

Arthur glared at him in growing irritation. "I must also drive Alfred home, if you must know."

"Ah, so it all becomes clear." Francis leaned his arms against the bar. "How absolutely gracious you are tonight, mon ami—wishing to spare your new companion the sight of your maudlin misery. Perhaps you have learned by now that it is very off-putting to others."

Arthur fumed silently, curling his fingers together as if he wished to strangle Francis.

Francis seemed to realize that he had crossed a line, and his tone softened. "We all understand how much you despise high society and consorting with those who belong to the elite, but do you think this is wise, bringing your new, lesser-class companion into this world—the ways of which he is completely unfamiliar with? You know how quick tongues are to wag here, and the damage that this could do to your career—do tell me your reasoning behind all of this. Did you simply grow bored with your prospective suitors on the privileged end of society? Are you intentionally trying to create a stir?" When Arthur failed to respond, Francis's voice sharpened with frustration. "Or did you tire of being poor, pitiful, undesirable Arthur Kirkland, forever unbeloved?"

Arthur pushed away from the bar in one violent movement. "I'll not stay to be insulted."

He attempted to pull away, infuriated when he discovered Francis's fingers grasping his sleeve, preventing his escape. "Leave go of me at once, Francis!" Arthur hissed. "Keep your damn hands to yourself."

Francis released him slowly, a strangely pensive light in his eyes.

"Very well, mon ami," he said coldly, finally giving up, his arm dropping to his side. "Evade me, if you will, but you will not forever evade the rest of the world . . . and certainly not your precious swain."

* * *

><p>Arthur had spoken much more with Alfred that night—and such pleasant things they said—but this was what he had not told him.<p>

He said nothing of his childhood, the glistening years of his youth spent in studious comfort, raised in his wealthy English family home where he'd watched for so long the dusk-hued roses climb the trellis outside of his bedroom window (_look, my love, you are almost as tall as they are now_); the days spent with his string of private tutors with their scholarly dark eyes, who chalked the board with exercises and expectations that he readily drank in; the nights spent reading classic works by flickering candlelight while his infant brother Peter frolicked on the carpet, closely watched over by his nurses.

He said nothing of his mother, who had devotedly raised him with tender pride, who had sat beside him many nights to read silently along with him, whose soft voice and perfume had wreathed about him as if to shield him from harm, whose loveliness put even the roses to shame. He'd watched the way that other men stared at her, approaching to offer social niceties from trembling lips or simply adoring her from afar.

She might have married any one of them, but instead she had let herself be wedded to Arthur's father, who took her as his second wife. Remarriage was of course common for those whose first spouse had died (_a streetcar accident, _the world had whispered vaguely to Arthur from outside), but the fact that his father had already had three sons with his first wife threw a tangle into the whole affair.

Arthur and his stepbrothers had shared a bitter, long-enduring enmity throughout their childhood, as they each vied for their father's attention and fought brutally once they were out of his sight. As Arthur's father had little attention to give to his young sons, they were often left to their own devices, which inevitably resulted in violent rivalry between Arthur and his much older stepbrothers. He'd been tripped as he entered rooms, shoved roughly aside in the hallway, and hurled against the side of a wall, where they had spat at him, telling him that they would never accept him as a part of their family, that they resented him and his mother both for daring to replace the memory of their own mother.

Arthur had never been possessed of bodily strength, but there was one field in which he utterly outperformed his brothers in every aspect, without a doubt: intellect. His intelligence had been the one thing that made his father take notice of him, and his slightest gesture of praise or approval made Arthur's heart swell with a fierce, exultant pride that even the jealousy of his stepbrothers could not dampen. Here he was safe, here they had no hope of surpassing him, and this realization had warmed him and soothed his savage temper beyond anything that his stepbrothers could do to him.

He knew that they would one day inherit his father's business, but he satisfied himself in the knowledge that they would botch it completely and do, at best, a mediocre job (_and then they'd have to come crawling back to him pleading for his help_). He might have been merely a thin, weak, powerless little boy, Arthur had reasoned, but he would find his grounding as an adult. He would succeed, he would triumph in the end—and his stepbrothers would be left to grovel at his feet.

At least, that was what he had always believed.

Devastating illness, combined with the crippling strain of financial burdens and grim bank notices piled four feet high on his office desk, claimed Arthur's father several years after Peter, his fifth son, had been born. Arthur had been but a youth of eighteen, on the very cusp of adulthood, prepared to seize the future and the education that was rightfully his.

However, it was at this time that the scandalous truth was finally revealed to them all: his father had been a frightful gambler. He had exhausted his wealth in clandestine deals made in saloons and betting-houses, and left his business in a shambles, dangerously near to ruin. In his will, he had parceled out most of his possessions and his estate to his first three sons to run, as well as to Arthur's mother. To Arthur he had left a small sum; to Peter, an even smaller sum.

With the Kirkland estate on the brink of destitution, and the men that its former master had left to manage it utterly incapable of doing so, Arthur realized that everything that he had ever worked for, the labors of his childhood and adolescence, was about to fall to the ground. His stepbrothers, shutting Arthur's mother out of the entire business, attempted to bring the company back up to a profitable state, but they were all dreadfully inexperienced and lacked any sort of efficiency and skill necessary. Desperate and wild with panic, they came to Arthur, begging him to aid them, to save the situation before it dragged them all down into poverty.

Thus it was left to the stepbrother that they had always loathed, the quiet, serious lad that they had taunted for his love of literature and tormented for the difference in their blood, to assuage the damage alone. Arthur, nearly nineteen, swiftly developed into a shrewd, merciless businessman, with an impressive understanding of economics and commerce and finances. With a ferocious determination he had set his mind to the task, knowing that the future of his family—and indeed, his own future—lay solely in his hands and that he was the only one who could deliver them.

It took him a year—a full, arduous, grueling year's worth of struggling to make ends meet and violently forcing revenue ever higher and cunning strategy and subterfuge—but by its end, Arthur emerged triumphant. His father's company was stabilized once more and producing successfully, and the once-impending threat of ruin had been removed. He had saved them.

Weary but suffused with the elation of his victory, Arthur returned to his stepbrothers—only for them to turn around sharply and suddenly drive him out of the business.

The attack had caught Arthur completely off guard. With a terrible sense of betrayal, he screamed at his stepbrothers, demanding to understand the reason for his ejection. They coldly informed him of his reasoning: their profit was secure, they no longer needed him to manage the company, and his presence would merely interfere with future enterprises. They'd refused to affiliate with him henceforth in any way but familial (which was legally dictated), and threatened to cut off his share of the profit unless he promised to remove himself from their dealings.

Bitter and proud, Arthur had left, swearing eternal hatred against his stepbrothers, and sought out the consolation of his remaining family. His mother had since married another man and was living quite happily in London, raising Peter, who by now was seven, with him. Arthur's new stepfather was coping well financially and seemed willing enough to do whatever his new wife wished in order to please her, a factor that Arthur decidedly approved of.

Arthur's mother had welcomed him, took him into her arms as if he were that insecure little boy of eleven again, and invited him to live with them. He thanked her gratefully, but refused—he had given up his education the year that he had devoted to reviving his late father's business, and he intended to return to it and eventually pursue a career in literature. He had no wish to return to his prior university, however, for he would surely be mocked and looked down upon, as the scandal had been common gossip, oft-whispered of by those most vicious-mouthed of society.

And Arthur realized that he had grown sick of that life—this world, where he had learned to ignore for so long the slew of evils that slithered along the shadowed underbelly of humanity: the greed, the treachery, the deception, falseness, infidelity. Adulthood had darkened his eyes, and the streets now looked to him to be naught but barren and empty, full of people with oh-so-empty faces and even emptier hearts (_and he realized that he no longer wanted to ignore_).

Disillusioned at heart, ill with a sort of anguish, Arthur decided abruptly to resume his studies in America. Nowhere else could be further from this place that no longer felt like home, he had thought wildly. All he wanted to do was lose himself, delve into another realm with none of the flaws of this one, just to leave, leave, leave.

Reality caught up with him soon enough as he'd paced down those foreign, unfamiliar, bustling streets for the first time. Unlikely that the folk here would be any different from that lot that he'd left in England; perhaps they'd even be more condescending, more spiteful.

Even as he voiced these disparaging thoughts to himself, though, he could not help the spark of hope that leapt within his heart at the sight of these new skies, new buildings, new people. He still felt an emptiness inside, but of a different sort, the sort that whispered _possibilities _to him and not _hopelessness. _

For the first time in a long while, Arthur had let himself breathe in deeply, tasting the new air, and he dared to hope. Despite everything, his own foolish dreams plagued him still, and he had not yet given them up.

* * *

><p><strong>Hope you liked this chapter, even though I kind of rushed through the ending. There was originally another section I was going to put in after the last one, but it would've made it sound too long-winded and rambling (not that that isn't my usual writing style!). My only regret is that this missing section was quite USUK-romance-y, in my own awkward way of writing it. (; I'm going to have to stick it in later or something . . . <strong>

**"_Omnia iusta sunt amore belloque"_ ****- Latin for "all is fair in love and war." I love sneaking the classics into my stories in every single way possible, ahahaha.**

**The song behind this chapter is "Little Bribes," another DCFC song. Used/changed the phrases:  
><strong>

**"and oh so empty were the faces"  
>"Those foolish dreams, you know they plague me still." <strong>

**So now we all know that Arthur's got quite a lot to hide from Alfred. Interestingly enough, they're more similar than they think - they both are intent on pursuing their dreams, have suffered family issues, and don't really like high society. It's really just up to time to see whether or not they both truly love each other for all the right reasons and can live with it - not because they admire each other because they're everything that the other is not.**

**This is probably the main reason for Francis's concern - he came off as very pushy, I think, keeping his nose in Arthur's business and asking the same questions repeatedly every time we see him, but he understands more or less what's going on. You can interpret it as amicable concern for Arthur's emotional stability or attempting to score with either Arthur or Alfred. XD **

**And we introduced all of Arthur's "clubbing buddies," ahahaha! Gilbert would just make the awesomest fun drunk ever, in my opinion. XD Notwithstanding that he's already always guzzling German beer (with the most disturbing noises ever in the Japanese version). **

**Please review and tell me all that you liked or didn't like, and what I should clarify or change in my story. I really do appreciate every single one that I get, and they literally are everything that keeps me going here. **

**I'm just rambling on now . . . hopefully the next time that I see you guys I'll be less tired/stressed/anxious/verbose/hyperactive/incomprehensible/infatuated/whatever-it-is-that's-making-me-go-crazy.**

**Thank you so much for reading! **


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